Balcony Scene
by Flywoman Returns
Summary: Pure self-indulgence, based on the promo for 7X16. House/Wilson friendship.


The view was so much better from up here. Okay, it was a view mainly of mangy grass and a desolate parking lot, but still, he had range, he had perspective.

Most importantly, he had height.

House balanced precariously on the balcony railing, his right thigh trembling with pain even after the handful of Vicodin he'd choked down. He'd asked for a room on the top floor, but this would do. He wasn't a cat, and he wouldn't get another eight lives after this one. Although some might argue that he'd already used up two or three of them. He snorted a little. _High in more ways than one_, and that thought made him snort some more.

_Yeah, you're a riot, Greg. Now do what you came up here to do._ He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the fall.

But then he paused, squinting. A car had just squealed into the lot, stopping askew on the painted line between two spaces. The driver's side door was flung violently open. In the dim moonlight, he could just make out a familiar figure climbing out, then trotting over to stand staring up at him, hands on hips. White male, brown hair, brown eyes. Of course, the cavalry, come in the nick of time. Except not.

"House!" The courtyard carried Wilson's voice up so that it sounded like his friend was standing right beside him.

"Don't," House sighed, and then, realizing that Wilson couldn't hear him from down there, he called more loudly, "I'm a failure. I'm _done_. There is _nothing_ you can do or say to stop me." And yet, belying his belligerent words, House hesitated, watching as the heavy brows furrowed, then rose in an implicit challenge: _you wanna bet?_

Wilson straightened, thrusting out his chest, and raised his left arm in a gracefully theatrical gesture. "See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!" he declaimed. "Oh that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!"

Despite his best efforts, House felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. "You jackass," he muttered.

"She speaks! Oh speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven…"

"Oh, _Christ_," House groaned, fighting futilely to suppress his grin, and clambered down off the railing. His legs and hands, he noted with chemically detached interest, were shaking.

"Don't move," Wilson called. "I'll be right up."

Against his better judgment, House stumbled back inside, rubbing his ruined thigh, and waited for Wilson. He estimated that only a couple of minutes had passed before the knock came at the door, but they felt long, and fuzzy around the edges.

Wilson stood just outside in the hallway, looking drained but relieved. He didn't bother to ask whether he could come in since that would have forced House to refuse him on principle, all the more so given how absurdly happy he felt to have him here. Instead, he brushed by House, touching him briefly on the arm, and then headed hastily to the bathroom.

Under the high-pitched hum of running water, House was certain that he could hear Wilson puking. He dry-swallowed another pill to keep the unsettling sounds at bay.

When Wilson emerged at last, his face was pale but resolute. "Look," he said, "I'll understand if you don't want to talk about it, but I've already heard Cuddy's version. Tell me how you ended up here?"

"I…" House said, and almost found himself _hanging his head_. Scowling, he straightened up. "Cuddy dumped me. With good reason."

"Because you took one pill."

"Because I went to see her, stoned, after being clean for a year and half. Because now she knows that she'll never be able to trust me around her kid. Around her life."

"You fucked up," Wilson observed. "Once."

"We both know," House said, "that I would have fucked up again."

"I know," Wilson said. "That's what addicts do. Cuddy should have realized that."

"She's right," House said hollowly. "I couldn't handle the thought of losing her. I told myself that it would be just this once, but the truth is that sooner or later something stressful would happen, and then…"

"I _know_," Wilson said again, more forcefully. "Which is why you need help. Other methods of coping. And someone who cares enough to stick by you when you fall."

"I thought that you were sick of picking up the pieces," House said. He'd meant it to come out as a sneer, but somehow it softened into something more closely resembling a plea.

"Foreman shouldn't have told you that. And House… not wanting to," Wilson said slowly, "and not being willing to, are two different things."

"Cuddy-" House began.

"I am _really_ pissed at her right now," Wilson interrupted him in a low voice, and House suddenly realized that he had never seen his friend so angry – not when he'd gotten his car impounded and bank accounts frozen by Tritter, not when House had goaded him into throwing the bottle through the funeral home's stained glass window. This was a quiet, bitter, deliberate rage, and it was scary as fuck.

"She… toyed with you, House. She couldn't shake her interest in you, so she wanted to see if she could make it work. I wonder whether she even _considered_ the likely consequences of failure for you." Wilson spoke evenly, but the way in which he clipped his words spoke volumes about the intensity of his feeling. "You can't just… rescue someone and then abandon them when they need you the most."

"Yeah," House said. "Or when your hot ex-wife wants to move into the condo. Oops, we were talking about Cuddy, weren't we?"

Wilson's gaze shifted away, then back. "No. You're right. I deserved that." He sighed, his fury visibly dissipating, to be replaced by wry self-deprecation. "If I think about it, you were doing really well right up until I decided that one spectacular failure with that woman wasn't enough."

Abruptly House found himself slumping in exhaustion. Wilson stepped forward swiftly and grabbed him under the arm, guided him backward so that he sank down on the bed. Then he sat down next to House, the mattress dipping under his weight, a bright point of body heat their contact at the shoulder.

"Now what?" House asked dully. For an absurd moment he wished that he could lean sideways and rest his head against Wilson's.

"Now?" Wilson repeated, stifling a yawn. "It's been a long day. I think we should both get some rest." He pulled away and stood up, unknotted his tie and hung it carefully over the back of a chair, then followed it with his coat.

"You're staying here?"

"This time you're not getting rid of me no matter how hard you try," Wilson said, toeing off his shoes and placing them neatly underneath.

"There's only one bed," House pointed out the obvious.

"Not a problem, unless you go hogging all the covers," Wilson replied, sliding almost fully dressed between the sheets. He turned on his side, away from House, and heaved a sleepy sigh.

For a few seconds, House could only stare bemusedly at his friend's solid back. By the time he grunted, "Rebound relationships are _your_ MO," Wilson's breaths were already slow and regular.

After a long moment of silence, House surrendered, unbuttoned the shirt that stank of stale sweat, and climbed stiffly into the double bed beside Wilson, who didn't so much as twitch as the mattress moved. House folded his arms behind his head and stared unseeing at the ceiling. "I am afear'd, being in night, all this is but a dream," he whispered. After a few seconds, his eyelids fluttered shut.


End file.
